


Snapshot: Military-Themed Porn

by rageprufrock



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-09
Updated: 2010-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-06 01:07:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jesus God, I don't know where these ideas come from but I wish they'd stay there.  Probably the best way to summarize this snapshot is to say that Rodney used to get around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshot: Military-Themed Porn

It's bad light and he looks glazed in it, red and dusky with whiskers, the pale hair on his body dark in contrast to his very white skin under the overhead. He'd flushed and his mouth is bruised: lips slick with spit and slick and come and wide open—red and gasping, greedy, with his tongue darting out to the red, red corners of his lips, moans rolling out of his throat. And his neck is red, flushed like his chest dotted with dark, wet, kiss-shaped bruises from mouths, and his belly is wet and shiny from where his cock—hard and red and jutting out—is rubbing against his stomach.

One of them says, "Turn the fuck over," and he just gasps and does it, bracing himself on the bed frame and gasping as he's pounded into the mattress, cock shoving inside him, tight and hot and claustrophobic.

He's slick from all the others and his fucking balls hurt from wanting to come and he needs that stretch, that burn, to really fucking feel it and that'd be all to set him off—but he's slick from all the others and the cock in his ass is just the most delicious, frustrating tease.

He says, "Please, fuck—please—"

And John says, "Okay, so, this is basically not what I expected to see in the ready-room," right before six Marines launch to their feet—hands over their tented fatigue pants while the video file on the laptop keeps playing, sound suddenly obscenely loud in the background.

"Sir!" they say, eyes huge and terrified. "We're—" and "This isn't—" and "You're—"

John holds up his hand just as one of the Marines—Kinner, from Jersey proper—dives in and turns off the sound, face so red he could be one of the terror alert levels.

"Wow," John says wryly, smirking, "if that video gets worse than it already sounded, you guys have a good piece of merchandise on yours hands."

"Sir—"

"Don't interrupt, Kinner, it's rude," John says, amused, and rolls his eyes. "It's four in the morning. I'm tired. I've probably hallucinated this entire thing." He gives his men a flat stare. "In fact, I'm probably sleepwalking as we speak."

All six of them nearly collapse in gratitude, and they're all good Marines and good old boys so they don't babble over one another with thanks or apologies. They just say, "Yes, sir."

So John says, "Okay then. I'm going back to my room where I'll forget this in the morning."

But then Kinner, who looks torn by guilt or fascination or something, says, "Sir, wait," and "Well—it's making the rounds on the internal servers, but I think you should probably see it sooner than later," and "No, I'm not being difficult," and turns the laptop screen around, so that John finally gets a visual with the sounds, and unmutes the computer:

It's bad light and Rodney looks glazed in it, red and dusky with whiskers, the pale hair on his body dark in contrast to his very white skin under the overhead. Rodney's flushed and his mouth is bruised: lips slick with spit and slick and come and wide open—red and gasping, greedy, with his tongue darting out to the red, red corners of his lips, moans rolling out of his throat. And his neck is red, flushed like his chest dotted with dark, wet, kiss-shaped bruises from mouths, and his belly is wet and shiny from where his cock—hard and red and jutting out—is rubbing against his stomach.

One of them says, "Turn the fuck over," and Rodney just gasps and does it, bracing himself on the bed frame and gasping as he's pounded into the mattress, cock shoving inside him, tight and hot and claustrophobic.

He's slick from all the others and his fucking balls hurt from wanting to come and he needs that stretch, that burn, to really fucking feel it and that'd be all to set him off—but he's slick from all the others and the cock in his ass is just the most delicious, frustrating tease.

Rodney says, "Please, fuck—please—"

And John says, "Oh, Jesus fucking—turn it off. Turn it the fuck off."

*

John deletes it off of their computer and swears their secrecy. All six give it happily but the underlying message is that it's all pointless; the video got out more than twenty-six hours ago, and like those God damned dancing hamsters, there's a better than likely chance everybody in Atlantis' very close-knit network has seen it now—has it saved on their hard drives now.

"Those uniforms aren't right," John says dismally, crumbled into a chair in the ready-room, staring miserably at the recycle bin on Kinner's laptop.

"They never are, sir," Kinner says sympathetically.

John doesn't know what bothers him more, the fact that probably everybody in Atlantis has now seen Rodney in cheap gay porn or that Rodney was in cheap, military-themed gay porn.

"What are the chances you guys have the only copy?" John asks hopefully.

"Well," Kinner says uncomfortably. "I mean, somebody forwarded it to me this morning."

"So low," John compromises, because "zero" is such an absolute word.

"Sure," Kinner humors him.


End file.
